


no fairytale

by bubbleteabunny



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, maybe if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13728453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbleteabunny/pseuds/bubbleteabunny
Summary: Anything can happen in the Atlas.





	no fairytale

On the night Erik meets you, it’s dark save for the flash of lights, blues and purples bouncing off everyone’s faces. The bass makes the walls vibrate and the room is burning like the surface of the sun. He weaves his way through the throng of bodies, in the direction of the bar. Visibility is always shit in here but this isn’t his first time so he does just fine navigating the space. It feels as though the ground is shaking beneath his feet, brought to life by the DJ and the dancers. And he’s half inclined to join them, to drown himself in the noise. But he decides he’ll head back out when he’s gotten a few (or several) drinks in him, for the lights are prettiest through hazy vision and the music best experienced when accompanied by the buzz in your brain.

He has to speak up, at a volume very nearly a yell, for the bartender to hear him. He sits tight waiting for his order, eyes on the crowd and the energy he swears he can see pulsing within, connecting and joining strangers who will remember fuck all come morning. The moment one steps through the double doors and into the Atlas, it’s a different world. There are no clocks besides what you keep on your wrist or in your pocket or in your purse. People like to say time stands still in the Atlas, and maybe it does, as long as you never check.  

The burn of alcohol sliding down Erik’s throat is familiar, and he drains the tumbler in one swig. He sets it down on the wooden bar a little aggressively, and it clacks loudly, but it’s practically silent when compared to the music blasting through the club. Then he orders another, and another, and one more for good measure. And it occurs to him he’s probably started building a high tolerance because his vision isn’t hazy yet, nor is there a buzz. Shit. He really has been here a lot. But the Atlas is an addiction you can’t shake. Not that anyone would want to.

He drinks until he gets to where he needs to be, and when the strobes seem the slightest bit blurrier, he thinks this is more like it. It feels warmer than it had been when he first got here but that’s not saying much. The dance floor is inviting him in and he listens to its whispers still audible despite the EDM pounding at his eardrums. And he gets lost with the rest of them, bright colors sliding over his face. He’s drifting in this sea with no course to sail, no destination.

At one point he brushes against someone, and he turns to see you in your red dress, hugging every curve like it was made for you. You smile at him but it looks more like a smirk and it’s written across your face that if he’s looking for a partner, he’s found one. The perfect one. And he smirks and takes you up on your silent offer, and the slide of satin against the palm of his hand feels otherworldly. He thinks for sure he’s burning up, wings melting. They won’t be missed. If the Atlas is the sun, you’re the core.

You smell like blossoms in the spring and feel like rain in the summer. He’s had a few drinks but you’re getting him drunker and he dips down to lay a few kisses along your neck, and you giggle because it tickles. You angle your head to give him better access and he groans, which you can’t hear, but you can feel it on your skin. His hands are gripping your waist in a vice, but before he can squeeze and bring you even closer, like you know he wants to, you twist around and out of his hold, and you can’t help but smile amusedly at his confused frown. It’s quick to disappear, traded for an expression of understanding, as you lead him away.

You bring him to your apartment and to a bed with silk sheets a shade of red to match your dress that quickly finds a new home on the floor. Everything is soft— _so soft_. The bedsheets, your skin, your moans. Nothing like the rough and tumble of the club, and Erik could confidently say he’s never experienced anything like this. He murmurs that you’re something else entirely, you in this bed like some corner of heaven, or maybe this is hell and he’s been dragged down but if this is your domain, he doesn’t want to leave. Your smirk is sinister and he’s looking for horns through hazy vision. Maybe you’re the devil, and he’s come to your throne.

Your eyes are dark and it’s not from the lack of lights in the bedroom. They seem familiar to him because they look like his own—the burn, the resolution. To achieve what you want and to do it well, no matter the cost. They say eyes are windows but he’s wondering if yours are mirrors, for they are too much like his, and he never thought any heart could compete with the shadow in his. But even the alcohol can’t fuck up something like this. And he knows, as the moonlight caresses your face and your half-lidded eyes seem almost red, that they are windows into a soul as dark as his. You’re the devil looking for a king.

Ambition looks good on you. If there was something you wanted, you had no trouble manipulating the cogs, moving pieces on the chessboard with no regard to rules. You didn’t wait for things to happen. You made them happen. That aggressive spirit resonates with Erik’s own. It’s why he’d stayed. The two of you are destructive and poisonous but when it comes to each other, you’re immune. It’s art, really. You’re more powerful together. He told you once that the both of you could take over the world, and you looked at him, perfectly beautiful and menacing, and asked  _Well, why don’t we?_

It’s a gloomy Saturday when tiny rain droplets race each other down the floor to ceiling windows in your living room. You’re on the floor, right in front of the glass, knees drawn up to your chest and arms wrapped around them securely. You hardly pay any mind to the noises Erik makes as he emerges from the bathroom fresh from a shower and rifles through the drawer for a shirt and a pair of sweats. The rain has been non-stop for almost a week now, the clouds heavy and gray. Red’s your favorite color but gray is a close second.

“Forecast says it’s supposed to clear up by Tuesday,” Erik remarks as he sits next to you.

You raise a brow, eyes never leaving the dark skies. “Shame. I like the rain.”

Erik snakes a hand around your waist to pull you to him. You loosen your arms from around your knees and lean into him, flattening out your legs and settling for folding them at a slight angle so you can sit more comfortably. You stay like that for a while. And Erik isn’t content with simply holding you, so he turns his head to nuzzle your hair, inhaling deeply the smell of blossoms. He closes his eyes to focus on the sensation of the scent flooding his veins, finding its way into his brain where it will remain forever.  

“I want a kingdom, Erik,” you comment. Your voice is gentle but the determination is clear. You’re not saying it to be poetic. You mean it.

Erik chuckles and smiles a little as he returns to gazing out the windows with you. “I’ll give you the universe, baby.”

At this, you smile as well, a slight upturn of the lips Erik loves more than a lot of things in this world. You glance up at him, with eyes deceptively bright from the glare of overcast skies. But he knows better. The demons which float around within you make them dark, reaching out and beckoning him in. He follows gladly. His own demons need companions after all. “Promise?”

The rain starts falling harder and it seems to echo off the walls and the wooden floors. This high place is your castle but you aim to climb higher still, as high as you can get. Your apartment is ground zero and the two of you will build your own tower of Babel, all the way to heaven.


End file.
